Memoirs of a Master
by melcon
Summary: The tale of Kenshin as told through the eyes of Seijuro Hiko,
1. Chapter 1

Now, in my age, I often wonder what would have happened if I had simply kept walking that night. How would history have written itself had I not followed my conscious and rose to the aid of that small group one fateful evening? I do not know. All I can do is tell my tale that history might see what fate had in store for Seijuro, master of Hiten Mitsurugi.

It was long ago. A pale moon shown down on a dying and sickened world, and the scream of fear on the cool evening breeze was only one of thousands heard around the world that night. Another murder, rape, kidnapping, assault. What mattered it? Death was the end of all men, sooner or later. But the screams kept coming, the shrill, high-pitched squeals of women, and duty compelled my feet forward.

I arrived at a dark clearing, and the unmistakable scent of blood and violence rose to greet me. Bodies lay everywhere, dripping wetly, and the harsh laughter of bandits hung in the air. Several were clustered around a sobbing woman, tearing at her clothes with animal-like grunts of excitement. I stepped into the clearing and said calmly, "Stop this at once if you wish to keep your lives."

The would-be rapists dropped the woman and turned to face me while the other bandits spun around. _Six of them_, I counted silently. Reaching out inwardly, I touched the air. No other human _chi_ was present save what was surrounding me, and I knew there were no more attackers lurking in the shadow.

"Who are you?" bellowed one of the attackers, boring in on me with one hand working his katana loose.

"You won't be alive long enough to remember," I responded before slashing him from shoulder to hip. The other bandits gave a scream of rage and raced forward, but Hiten Mitsurugi is a fearsome style and no match for untrained bandits with more brawn than sword technique. All of them died under my sword, leaving their corpses behind.

I stood for a moment, gazing at them with regret. I loathed killing and the necessities that required it even if it was to save innocent lives. Turning around, my eyes fell upon the woman who had been molested by the bandits: to my surprise, I saw that she had stabbed herself while I was fighting and now lay on her back, her life's blood dripping out of her. No doubt she had decided that death was preferable to loss of honor, but I was grieved and angered to have killed so many in her defense only to find her dead at my feet.

_Is there no one left alive that my killings have saved? _I raged to myself when a slight movement caught my eye. Buried in the shadows of some bushes, a small boy stood, tiny hands gripping a sword that he barely could hold aloft. He was panting and blood-splattered, but courage and anger shown in his eyes. Behind him were the corpses of other women, and by the looks of things, he was the sole survivor.

_At least I saved one,_ I thought bitterly. Fishing a cloth from beneath my cloak, I began wiping my sword clean. To him, I said, "Drop the sword, boy, it's too heavy for you and all the bandits are dead."

He did not respond at first, and I could see in his eyes that he was going into shock. The bodies scattered around him were no doubt his family, and the grief he felt was evident on his face. Trying to soften my voice, I tried again, "I am sorry I could not save the lives of your family. But the bandits are dead; they will not trouble you anymore."

There was no sign that the boy had understood what I said or even registered that I had spoken. He was alone, scared, and likely hungry and cold, but it was not my place to nurture children. As a roving swordsman, I had no home to offer him if for some reason I have been inclined to take him into my care. Thinking it over, I sheathed my sword and finally said, "There is a village not far from here. I will tell them that you are here, and they will send someone to care for you." Moving over to the dead bandits, I searched through their pockets for their money pouches. There wasn't much, but it was better than nothing; I thought I would bring the money to the village to help cover the cost of the boy's care. Most of the villages in the area were quite poor, and even a small boy eats a lot of rice.

When I straighted up, I saw that the boy still had not moved, and his hands had not unclenched themselves around the sword. Picking up the jug of _sake_ I had put down before the fight, I turned to go, leaving him behind. He made no noise as I left, and his tiny frame was soon swallowed up in the dark night.

At the village, I spoke to the village elder and pressed the money into his hands; he accepted it and promised to care for the boy. In return, he offered me a night's hospitality. I though of accepting since it had been some time since I had slept indoors, but the stark poverty of the village was evident and I did not wish to tax their already-stretched resources. Instead, I slept under the stars as my normal custom. In the morning, I stopped in at the village to see how the boy was doing; why I cared so much, I could not say, but something pressed me forward.

The village elder met me, bowing and cringing, and said "The boy would not leave, sir! He threatened me off with a sword! I didn't know what to do!" He took my frowns as anger directed at him and dropped to the ground in supplication.

Waving him off, I said, "Never mind. I shall find him myself," and left the elder with his face pressed into the dirt. As I moved towards the place I had left the boy, my thoughts swirled around in my head, _Why is it you care so much, Seijuro? You have no patience for children and there is nothing you have to offer a child. As a roving sword master without a roof to call your own, would you train this boy in the way of the sword and give him a home of earth and sky? Are you going soft in your age? _These thoughts continued until I reached a small clearing and stopped in amazement. There were several graves gouged into the earth and rocks piled up as if in a monument. Kneeling in front of the rocks was the one I sought.

He turned around and stood up as I came forward, looking at me with oddly calm eyes. Although there were dried tear stains on his cheeks and he was smeared with dirt and blood and wavering on his feet from fatigue, there was a strange strength about him and a maturity that was far beyond his years. His hair, what could be seen from the mats and dirt, was oddly red, a strange color for a Japanese child. He was slight and delicate-looking, and I put his age at seven or eight, amazed that this frail-looking child could have dug all those graves by himself.

Looking at the crude graveyard, I said, "You buried all these people, even the men who attacked you and your family?"

"They weren't my family," the boy stated, a quaver in his voice that he determinedly held back. "They were slave traders that bought me after my mother and father died."

"Then why did you bury them and their attackers too?" I questioned.

The boy sniffed, but his voice held firm. "Because they were all people and all deserved a grave. And the women helped me. They took care of me and were my friends." He gestured at the rock pile. "I wanted to decorate their graves with flowers but I could only find these rocks." His voice began to break and I could see new tears welling in his eyes, "I wanted to make their graves beautiful but..." he fell silent, choking back the tears.

I stood for a moment, then uncorked my _sake_ bottle. "Then I will offer this _sake_ in their memory to bless their spirits on the way to nirvana," I said, pouring a generous measure onto each rock.

"Thank you," the boy quavered, then looked at me in confusion, "Mr......?"

"Seijuro. Seijuro Hiko." I looked down on him sternly. "Learn the name of your new master, young one."

"Master?" the boy said confusedly.

"Yes," I responded, surprising him as much as myself. A pupil? I had never considered taking a student before now, thinking myself much too young to acquire an apprentice and settle down to a life of training him. Yet I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the wheels of fate had brought this boy to me for that purpose alone.

"And your name?" I questioned.

"Shinta," the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I frowned. _A vulgar peasant habit I shall have to break him of_, I thought to myself. With this child, nothing he did would escape my scrutiny and criticism.

Aloud, I said, "That name will not do. It is a child's name, too soft for a swordsman. I give you the name of Kenshin."

"Ken-shin," the boy repeated. "Heart of the sword," he said, looking at me with a confused expression.

"And you will be, _deshii_, you will be," I responded, ignoring the puzzled look on the boy's face. Myself, I was somewhat puzzled over my own confidence that this scrawny child rubbing his nose was worthy of being instructed in the way of Hiten Mitsurugi. Yet there was not the slightest doubt in my mind that this little one was a pupil worthy of my full attention. Fate had deemed it, had brought him to me, and here was the one who would one day kill me to take my place.

Setting my _sake_ bottle on the ground with a thump, I said gruffly, "Let's go. Take the _sake_ bottle. A pupil of Hiten Mitsurugi must make himself useful." The boy awkwardly hoisted it aloft although it was clearly too heavy for him and his small strength already taxed. Yet, he set his teeth grimly in a stubborn cast which secretly delighted me.

Turning, I let my weighted coat sweep behind me and marched off into the day, the boy dragging behind me, staggering under the weight of the _sake_ bottle. Conscious that he was reaching the end of his strength, I slowed my feet to an unhurried pace. He made no complaint, and it was clear from the look on his face that he would carry that bottle until he dropped dead from exhaustion. I had no doubt that he would apply that same grim determination and stubborn spirit to his sword training. Hiding a smile, I thought to myself, _So now, Kenshin,we begin. _


	2. Chapter 2

With the coming of Kenshin, my life changed in ways I had not imagined. One of the first thoughts I had as Kenshin staggered behind me that first night was that my ways of a wandering swordsman were over: I now had two bellies to feed and shelter, and the rigorous regime of sword training demanded a more fixed, permanent lifestyle. This meant that I needed some sort of income in order to secure consistent food and shelter for my new pupil and myself as well; while I was accustomed to living off the land, foraging as I went, such a lifestyle was time-consuming and my pupil would demand most of my waking hours.

Fortunately for me, in my former life before the twelfth master of Hiten Mitsurugi had plucked me from a small providential village to be his apprentice, I was the eldest son of a pottery master and had learned the skill of my father from the time I was able to walk. While it had been many years since I had held clay in my hand, I was confident that my old skills would return to me and allow me to make enough income for Kenshin and I to live off of while at the same time giving me time for Kenshin's training.

In both manners, I was correct. Not many days after Kenshin had joined me, I found both employment for myself and shelter for us both in one happy twist of fate: our wanderings brought us to a village that had recently buried their potter, an old man without family or apprentice to pass his kiln and home onto. In exchange for a certain percentage of the profits I earned every year through making pottery, the village agreed to give me the old potter's possessions and housing. This arrangement suited everyone; it seems that the old man's skills had declined greatly in his last years, and since he was the only potter for many miles, the surrounding villages had been forced to cope with inferior pottery. Many of the villagers I encountered made no secret their hope that my skills would prove much better than the previous potter.

For myself, I was somewhat dismayed at the state of both the kiln and the house – the kiln was a poorly tended affair, a temperamental device with many badly mended-cracks and an infuriating tendency to go from blazing hot to cool in what seemed like seconds. The house was even worse: a tiny shack with more holes than roof and walls that provided slightly more shelter than sleeping out in the open. However, the arrangement was more than I was likely to find anywhere else, so I accepted, knowing that some hard work and attention would soon mend both the kiln and the home. Besides, the location of our new quarters nicely balanced out some of the defects; we were tucked away from the village in a remote spot near the base of a massive waterfall and surrounded by trees. There was quiet and peace here, and I could not have asked for a better spot to train my new pupil.

The start to Kenshin's training was somewhat haphazard in those first few months: there was simply too much work to be done on the house and kiln at first, and I had to dust off old memories of my father's teachings and apply them. My initial pots and cups were subpar at first, and I quietly disposed of many of them. Night after night, while Kenshin slept indoors, I labored over the kiln until my eyes were raw with heat and smoke and I was close to staggering from weariness when morning finally came, it taking all my strength of will not to display any sign of exhaustion to my pupil less he think me weak. Yet my old skills rapidly caught up with me again, and soon I was producing pottery that people journeyed many miles to purchase.

The inflow of customers, I quickly discovered, was a nuisance that I had to get rid of: I bear a natural dislike of people, and I simply could not train Kenshin and also attend to the endless stream of people who turned up at my house in search of tea cups and bowls. A meeting with the village elders solved the problem: they would sell my pottery for me, keep back a percentage for themselves to cover the cost of the house and kiln, and give the rest to me. This arrangement suited everyone, and I was glad for it.

While I was sweating over kiln and clay, Kenshin worked nearly as hard as I did. I had been surprised to discover that he was near eleven years old; his slight frame made him look much younger. Yet, it was clear from the beginning that he was from the peasant class, for he set to the duties before him with both knowledge and fortitude. It was Kenshin that carried out many of the repairs of the house and all of the regular household tasks such as cleaning and cooking. It was transparent that he was accustomed to looking out for himself, and at times, I found myself looking for any traces of a child in his grim, determined expression.

After the first several months passed, I had a reasonably comfortable house, a tolerably working kiln, and a steady source of income; my old skills had returned and I was producing pottery that people eagerly paid whatever the asking price was. Since I had no desire to live in luxury, I was able to produce a living for myself and Kenshin without needing to devote too much attention each day to clay and kiln. When that was established, Kenshin bore the brunt of my scrutiny. Even from the first day I took him on as an apprentice, I was hard on Kenshin. I had no choice; the life of the sword is brutal, and the principles of Hiten Mitsurugi can only be learned by those with an iron spirit and body. I would either crush this boy utterly in body or spirit or he would overcome the hardships I heaped upon him and become greater than even I was. Thus, I did not let up on him for one moment.

Kenshin bore everything I laid upon him with stubbornness and resolute determination. Yet it was not just his sheer will alone that guided his sword hand; there was a fierce love in him for the sword that I felt the first day I placed a katana in his hands. It was a poor thing, a cheap training blade I had purchased off a peddler. But it was time for Kenshin to feel steel in his hands after months of training with a wooden sword. When he grasped it in his hands (which at his young age already bore the calluses of a swordsman), something hummed and sang in him and there was a murmur in his _chi_ whispering that this small boy could do marvelous things with the inferior blade that many trained men could not do with a master forged blade.

That evening, I could scarce drag him indoors to rest and eat; he was far too scrawny to skip a meal and far too likely to sneak some extra practice time around my back instead of resting as I had commanded him. In my years of training Kenshin, I had no worries that he would prove indolent; I was far more concerned that his sheer will would consume him and burn through his physical resources until nothing more was left. Thus as master, I had to find the razor-sharp line between pushing my pupil to the very extremities of his abilities and resources and destroying him by demanding the impossible.

It was not just the extremities of limb and muscle that I pushed with Kenshin; his mind and soul also needed the same exacting training. Although more often than not it was adult eyes that looked out at me under his fringe of red hair, at times the petulant child shone through. Kenshin's one weak point was his emotions; he was easily provoked to anger, frustration, and fits of moodiness that only earned him extra training and punishment. His violet eyes held a surprising range of colors that changed at will, and even when years of training taught him better mastery over his emotions, he could not prevent his eyes changing color to reflect his moods.

And he provoked me, oh how he provoked me! I bear very little love for the company of humans; adults are bad enough but children are something worse. Kenshin's high-pitched voice could quickly screech higher when his emotions were roused, a sound that grated on my ears like ground glass on a wound. He frequently had nightmares and would often wake shrieking. Once in the first few weeks after our meeting, he dared to try to sleep next to me after waking from a nightmare, no doubt hoping I would cuddle and console him as if he was a baby. I harshly ordered him back to his futon and cuffed him for the tears on his face. It is not in my nature to be cruel, but the life of a swordsman leaves no room for tears. If he did not learn at a young age to stifle his fears and achieve the inner calm and emptiness of a true warrior, there was no hope for him in the future. It was no different that what my master had done to me in order that I might be the 7th master of Hiten Mitsurugi. There was no other way, cruel as it might be.

Thus four years passed of master and pupil breathing in the same air, eating the same food, and spending nearly all their hours in each other's presence: loathing and admiring by turns, hating and fighting, yet fatefully bound together. Kenshin grew from a scrawny young child to a gangling teenager of diminutive stature with a long ponytail of red hanging behind him. Despite his still frail-looking appearance, his skill was prodigious, and more and more I had to exert my strength and skill to keep ahead of him. What he lacked in size and strength, he more than made up for in speed and skill. I was no longer plagued with occasional doubts about my choice to take Kenshin on as an apprentice, no longer bemoaned the fates that had sent me such a willful and stupid pupil. One thing was becoming rapidly clear: Kenshin would be the next master of Hiten Mitsurugi. Though such a feat could not be accomplished without my death, I had no fear of this event. If anything, it meant I would not die an old man, alone and feeble. It had been years since I had faced another swordsman who was at my skill level – when I taught Kenshin the final technique, if he mastered it, I would be surpassed, my skill and prowess lesser than my pupil. The thought brought me odd pleasure, strange as it sounds.

Kenshin knew none of this. If I was not criticizing him for fault (something that was increasingly harder to do as his technique became more and more flawless), I took refuge in sarcasm, my long-standing habit. In his earlier year, I could easily move Kenshin to anger or tears with my sardonic wit; as time passed, he learned better control of his emotions, but even after four years, I still knew ways to call amber to those violet eyes and see him writhe inwardly with frustration and indignation. In all our interactions together, there were not many times when he was at ease and relaxed in my presence, but there were a few, particularly when I had imbibed a little more _sake_ than I had intended and had fallen into a philosophical mood.

"Look at the moon, Kenshin," I said on one of those nights. We were outdoors resting on the cool grass under a full, late spring moon. A light breeze rippled the dark trees and teased at our hair.

Kenshin looked up obediently. "I see it, Master," he replied in a quiet voice.

"In all your hard training, do not forget there is pleasure in every season, my pupil," I stated. "Winter brings the falling of snow, spring has cherry blossoms to comfort you, summer has its flowers, and fall the harvest moon." I took another sip of _sake_. "Do not forget that you were put on earth not just to live by the sword and protect others from harm. All that is on this earth is for your enjoyment."

"I see, Master," Kenshin replied.

"No, my pupil," I responded with an indulgent smile but no sarcasm. "At this point, you do not fully understand. But one day you will. On that day, I will pour _sake_ for the both of us." I had never permitted Kenshin the drink; he had never asked for it. It was an unspoken rule that the contents of the _sake_ bottle were mine along. But there was a day fast approaching that Kenshin would share the sacred drink with me. It would be my last act as his master before I taught him the final technique. Our first drink together would be our last.

Or so I thought. I did not know it at the time, but there were rebellious thoughts stirring in my young pupil, so carefully hidden behind a tranquil face that even I could not sense them. Had I known that our first drink together would be long delayed, had I some inkling of what was passing through his head, perhaps I could have prevented some if not all of the horrors that were to come. But alas, I did not.

Time passed and the fates spun their web, and even the master of Hiten Mitsurugi could not stop them.


	3. Chapter 3

I cannot plead complete ignorance, for there were signs. Remote as my house was and as little as Kenshin and I went to the village (Kenshin more than I) we still could not escape tales of the civil war that Japan was embroiled in, the fierce struggle between Ishin and Shinsengumi. Kenshin showed an interest in the conflict that troubled me. The last thing I needed was for my foolish pupil to take it into his head to join the fight. His skill with the blade was prodigious, but his mind and impulse were still like a child in many ways: too impetuous and impassioned by far and too likely to throw him into action without heeding the consequences. A swordsman like him let loose in the middle of a war would cause only mass destruction and chaos at the very time he sought to make an end to bloodshed.

I suppose it was Kenshin's past that had bred in him a fierce desire to protect and save. He had always shown a tenderness to the weak and helpless. Time after time, I had caught him furtively trying to nurse some injured or ill animal back to health: one of his rescue attempts had resulted in an infestation of mice in the house which ate through our food supplies and clothing before I managed to poison them all, much to Kenshin's dismay. Whether it bird or beast or hungry child timidly begging at my front door, Kenshin's soft heart was easy prey. I worried over this, knowing that a burning desire to protect, if left untamed and immature, can so easily turn into tyranny and violence. Yet, I secretly rejoiced over my pupil's pureness of heart, knowing that it would keep him from loving violence and seeking bloodshed as so many men fall prey to. Kenshin would kill to protect, this I knew. But he would never take pleasure in it, this I was certain.

Perhaps had Kenshin stayed with me, he would have learned wisdom and restraint through my teaching and the maturity that age often brings. Alas, it was not to be. On one bright day in his fifteenth year, Kenshin, without preamble and without fear, calmly told me he was leaving to join the fight.

I remember that day so well. Kenshin was dressed for travel, a small bag packed, and sword ready. Despite his impetuousness, he had always been methodical and exact in everything he did. It was entirely like him to have planned in advance: he did nothing by halves.

I cannot say that I was entirely surprised by the news but angry, certainly. "You? Join the Ishin? Ridiculous. You're just a boy and that battle is not for you."

Kenshin stood his ground, "Master, there are hundreds of people dying every day. I no longer can stand by while innocent people die."

"And what can you do?" I snapped back harshly. "You think your sword will save people? Stupid boy! You'll only kill and kill, slaughtered hundreds that a handful of miserable souls might crawl about on earth a few years longer."

Kenshin's hand tightened on his blade, "No, I'll save more than that, Master. I'll work to restore peace to Japan so that all may live in safety."

"You'll do nothing but shed blood until you stink of it. I did not teach you the hidden ways of Hiten Mitsurugi in order to cause more suffering than there already is. This is not the way to peace. There is nothing that your sword can accomplish for Japan. Your duty is to stay here and finish your training."

"I've trained, Master, four years I have trained," Kenshin's voice began to arch higher, a sure sign that he was losing control of his temper. "And I can no longer train here in safety and peace while so many of our fellow countrymen die...."

"Oh, Kenshin the savior?" I scoffed, sarcasm pouring out. "Kenshin, the wise who knows so much more than his elders? Kenshin the one who will set Japan aright again? Don't fool yourself boy; you're only a pupil of the blade and an ignorant one at that." Anger was getting the better of me too. I wanted nothing more than to wring my stubborn pupil's scrawny little neck.

From the look on Kenshin's face, the feeling was mutual. With supreme effort of will, he held back his rage and said with tolerable calmness, "Whatever you say of me, I will not change my mind. As long as this conflict rages in Japan, I no longer can stay here in peace and quiet. Not while so many suffer."

"Then go then if it suits you," I snarled. "I cannot reason with you if you will not set aside your thick-headedness. You have obviously made your mind up, so do as you will."

Without a word, I turned on my heel and marched into the house, slamming the door behind me. Kenshin made not a sound. He did not need to: once my foolish pupil made up his mind, no power on earth could sway him. Within moments, the tang of his _chi_ was no longer in the air: he was gone.

In the silent weeks to come, I tried to tell myself I was happier off without my whining, annoying pupil demanding every second of my time and doing his best to provoke me. In truth, I grieved the loss of Kenshin. I have never been able to be close to anyone, but Kenshin had managed to carve out a place in my heart despite my best intentions. It was inevitable that a master and pupil living in close quarters like we did would eventually come to have some emotional connection to each other. Loathing is only the other end of love, and in my odd, bitter, cold way, I suppose that I had come to love Kenshin after a fashion. It struck me in odd ways over the next several months; I would come across a spare bit of wood I had seen Kenshin whittling or what sounded like footsteps approaching my house, and a strange bolt of pain would tap at my heart. He was not coming back, this I knew for a fact. But I could not deny that I missed him.

With Kenshin gone, I turned my attention back to the kiln and my own training, making pots that were more and more coveted and fine-tuning my own sword skills which I had neglected to train Kenshin. Without Kenshin, I was forced to visit the village more than I liked and answer intrusive questions about where Kenshin was; he had been well-liked by the people of the village, especially the children, and they were saddened at his sudden absence.

For my part, the annoyance of visiting the village deepened to pain in upcoming months when I began hearing stories about a demon-man that had been unleashed in Kyoto. Battousai the Manslayer they called him, an assassin of the shadows, deadly as a tsunami. Although none knew what he looked like or where he was from, my heart failed me every time I heard the name whispered. Although my heart screamed that Kenshin could not possibly be this person, that my pupil could not have stooped to being an assassin, my mind told me that such a thing was indeed possible. Kenshin in his passion and justice and youthful optimism could easily have fallen prey to the right leader, the one would could see his talent and know how to twist his emotions in order to produce the desired results. Young as he was and still grieving the losses in his childhood, Kenshin would be an easy victim to a powerful cause. As much as I wanted to disbelieve it, I greatly feared that my young pupil was nothing more than a puppet in the hands of powerful men who only their own interests at heart.

But what could I do? Even if I were to march to the teeming streets of Kyoto, how would I find Kenshin? And if I was to find him, what would I do? Tie him up and drag him back home? Beat him senseless? Shame him in front of his commanders? I could not train one who was not willing to be taught, and as long as Kenshin could not see the error in his ways, there was no power on earth that could do it for him.

So I continued to make pots and practice my sword. The months turned into years, and the conflict continued to rage in Japan. I stayed by the waterfall, making pottery and having very little contact with humanity. From time to time, I thought of trying to find another pupil. Kenshin had not completed his training, and there was no one to whom I could pass on the mantle of Hiten Mitsurugi. But the thought of taking on another pupil who just might as well run away before his training was more than my heart could take. If I died and fate decreed that Hiten Mitsurugi died with me, then so be it.

Thus fifteen years passed. I was past my fortieth birthday, and much as I hated to admit it, the effects of time were beginning to set in. There was more than one strand of silver in my black hair, and my knees and hands could become stiff and slightly painful at times. Although I had looked to Kenshin as the one who would free me from having to face my twilight years, it was becoming more apparent that I was doomed to what many people would call a blessing: a long life and death in bed at a ripe old age.

But the fates had another twist in store for the master of Hiten Mitsurugi. One day as I sat outside at my kiln as always, a ripple of _chi_ shimmered in the air. Kenshin. I sensed him before he made his appearance, and glad I was of it for it gave me time to collect myself.

When he appeared, I was bent over the kiln devoting an inordinate amount of time and attention to removing a set of tea cups from its flames. "So the errant pupil returns, eh?" I said to him, not looking at him. "The savior of Japan finally comes back to his master. So tell me, how many did you save with your killing blade?"

"Master," Kenshin replied calmly. I fussed with the cups some more before straightening up and taking my first look at Kenshin in over a decade. At first glance, he looked much the same: still small and too skinny by half. He was still young-looking, but a cross-shaped scar on his cheek and the deep sadness in his eyes aged him. Even more so, there was a strange calmness about him, a weightiness that spoke of suffering beyond measure and also the strength needed to overcome it.

I finished my looking, then turned towards the house. Kenshin didn't make a move. "Well, what are you waiting for, boy?" I growled. "Fetch some water so you can make us some tea."

Kenshin did as he was told and in the house he made tea with the same exacting movement he had as a child. I watched him closely while trying to appear nonchalant. He was so thin, did he ever eat anything? His hands were heavily calloused, and the _saya_ at his side bore many chips and dents. As he moved about, I caught sight of more scars on his arms and hands, and I had no doubt that many more were hiding under his clothing. The scar on his cheek looked ugly as if he had taken a long time to heal. For one shocking second, I was seized with an overwhelming urge to sweep him up into a crushing hug. But I recoiled at the thought and merely settled down on the floor to wait for tea to be set in front of me.

With a gentle movement, Kenshin placed a teacup in front of me and picked up one for himself. I sipped it, trying to settle in my mind what I would say to him, joy and anger fighting for dominance in me. The air was silent but thick with words unsaid. _Why did you leave your training, you foolish boy?, _I raged to myself. _What have you done with yourself, what horrors have you witnessed and caused? _Kenshin's face was serenity itself, but his _chi_ had changed. It no longer sang with the innocent purity of childhood but instead was heavy with grief and suffering. It was the essence of someone who had both seen and caused unmentionable sorrow. _Baka! What did I unleash upon an unsuspecting world? _I thought to myself. And then, fleetingly and without preamble, I thought, _Why did you leave me?_

Finally, the words unsaid were too loud to let the silence continue. Composing myself, I harrumphed and spoke in my accustomed sardonic tones, "So, my stupid pupil, what brings you back to your master?"

Kenshin sipped his tea and replied quietly, "I've come to to finish my training, Master."

"You've been gone over fifteen years. What makes you think that I have any interest in finishing what you refused to complete?"

Kenshin smiled slightly, "I was so young and foolish when I left you, Master." He set the teacup down. "There is not a day that goes by that I don't regret what I did. What I have done." Moving his hands forward, he bowed formally, arms outstretched towards me. "Master, please complete my training, I beg of you."

"Why?" I demanded, "Why now after all these years?"

Kenshin rose up and looked at me, and a flash of amber sparked in his eye. "I must..." he stopped and one hand groped towards his sword, "I must face Shishio Makoto, who is killing so many people in Japan. He is too powerful, and the Menji government has asked me to stop him."

"So do it," I said ominously. "Surely the training you have received is sufficient for defeating one swordsman. Unless your skills have grown soft since you left me."

"Master," Kenshin said quietly. "I have made a vow not to kill. Because of this, I must find a way to defeat Shishio without breaking my vow to kill."

"A ridiculous vow," I barked. "Have I taught you nothing? The way of the sword is the way of death. There is no other way. Surely you know this; the scars on your body are living truth to this."

"There is a way, Master, you and I both know this," Kenshin lifted his katana in his hand. "With this sakabatou, I have defeated many opponents without killing them. With your training, I know I can defeat Shishio without taking his life."

"A reverse blade sword?" I scoffed. "What nonsense is that?" I sipped my tea again, not even tasting the liquid as it slipped down my throat. Instead, I eyeballed Kenshin narrowly. He was calm, poised, but I could see the conflict and emotion warring in him.

Laughing, I said, "After all these years, you still can't hide your emotions. Your eyes give you away."

Kenshin said nothing. I knew that he was waiting to hear what my verdict was. I toyed with the idea of simply sending him away – it was well within my rights to turn out my errant pupil after his long absences. But, although I would not admit it to myself at the time, I was too glad to see him again to deny him this one request. In all the long years we had been apart, I had never quite given up hope that Kenshin would return to me. My errant pupil had apparently regretted the error of his ways and was seeking restitution. I would not deny him it.

Rising to my feet, I strode out of the house. Kenshin made not a move. At the door, I paused and said gruffly, "Well, _baka deshi_, are you coming or not?"

Kenshin followed me silently until we reached the flat rock by the waterfall where we had practiced so many times before. Like old times, practice began again, me directing and criticizing and Kenshin bearing everything. He had lost none of his old passion and determination, and in some ways, he was better than I had ever seen him before. The past fifteen years had certainly taught him new skills and tricks. But in many ways, he was weak. Where once he had attacked with every fiber of his being, there was now hesitation, holding back. I have no doubt that his desire not to kill was staying his hand, keeping him from attacking with the wholehearted commitment of before.

We trained, for five days Kenshin attempted to learn Amakakeru Ryu no Hirameki, the final technique of _Hiten _Mitsurugi. He failed each and every time. As we struggled and sweated, both Kenshin and I grew increasingly more frustrated. Had I been teaching this fifteen years ago before Kenshin left me, he would have mastered it, I was sure of it. Now, it was as if his arms were weighed down with his past, his mind too cluttered with memories and grief to allow the emptiness training required.

It wasn't until I ordered Kenshin to meditate all night that there was some sort of breakthrough. He faced me the next morning with the clear-headed focus that exhaustion brings.

Standing across from him, I said, "Do you understand what you must do, Kenshin?"

He looked back and there was calm knowledge in his eyes, "Yes, Master."

"Then attack!" I commanded.

I knew, knew the instant he flew at me, as time slowed and nine points of attack hit me all at once. He had mastered it. He was complete, the next master of Hiten Mitsurugi, and I...I was dying.

I fell to the ground, a deep gash scored across my chest. Kenshin was at my side in an instant, violet eyes glazed with shock and grief. Shaking me, he screamed in anguish as my eyes slowly closed and oblivion took me.

Morning dawned, clear and cold. I groggily lifted my head off my pillow, feeling nothing but pain radiating throughout my body. However, the pain was wonderful. Relief filled me and a strange joy too. _He did it_, I thought. _Kenshin mastered the final technique while still remaining true to his vow. He is a true swordsman now._

Kenshin entered the room not long after I awoke. Seeing I was awake, he hastily rushed to my side. "Master!" he squeaked. "Master, you're alive!"

I waved him off feebly, "Bah, after a weak attack like that?"

Kenshin smiled, then lifted my head up so that I could drink the water he had brought me.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite my objections, Kenshin insisted on staying with me a few days until he was satisfied that I was able to care for myself and in no danger of dying. On the third day, he packed to leave, preparing to rejoin the fight and confront Shishio.

When he was ready to leave, I motioned him over to my side. I was sitting on the floor, a bottle of _sake_ and two cups at my side. "Sit, Kenshin," I commanded.

Kenshin did, hesitantly accepting the cup I handed to him and holding it out for me to fill it. I also filled my cup, and we shared the first drink we had ever had together. Sipping in silence for a few minutes, I finally spoke, "I told you that one day you and I would share a drink together. This is the time for us to do so. You are now the 14th master of Hiten Mitsurugi, Kenshin. As such, your name is now Hiko Seijuro."

Kenshin smiled one of his enigmatic smiles. "I thank you, Master, for all that you have done for me. But, I cannot take your name upon myself. I hope that there is a day I may set aside the sword and know peace. Because of this, I cannot take your name from you. You are the master of Hiten Mitsurugi, not I."

"Always the modest one, aren't you?" I scoffed. "Very well. My cloak would look ridiculous on such as scrawny runt as yourself."

Kenshin grinned, then we both slipped into silence, enjoying our first shared cup of _sake_, no longer as master and pupil but as master and master.

Soon, too soon, Kenshin was on his way. I had managed to convince him that I wasn't in any danger of dying, and he had a battle to fight. Standing in the doorway, Kenshin looked back at me.

"Thank you, Master, for everything you have done."

"You take care of yourself, Kenshin, and defeat Shishio." I responded.

With a smile, Kenshin was gone. I did not hear from him for many other years, but through news from the village, I heard that Shishio had been defeated and Japan had been saved from his avaricious power.

Time passed. The years rolled by, and one day I caught the shimmer of my former pupil's _chi_ in the warm summer air. But there was a stank to it, a heavy deadness that filled my heart with dread. When the man himself appeared into view, my premonitions were correct.

It would not take a doctor to see that Kenshin was dying. His arms and neck were wrapped in white cloths, and something dark had oozed through the bandage on his left arm. His movements were slow and weak, and his entire body bore the air of someone who has suffered greatly.

As he approached me, he moved to bow, but ended up staggering towards me. I caught him before he fell to the ground. "By the gods, _baka_, what have you been doing to yourself?" I thundered. As I stood him upright, I saw that another man, tall with a mop of spiky dark hair, was standing next to a horse not far from us.

The man was chewing a strand of grass, and he nodded at me. "I'll wait here, Kenshin," he said. Relieved that Kenshin had not attempted a long journey by himself in his condition, I turned back to my former pupil.

"Well, I'd tell you to go get water for tea, but I don't think you could lift a cup, let alone carry a whole bucket. You always were a lazy one," I grumbled at him, hiding my concern under my accustomed sarcasm. He was weak, so weak, the form leaning on my arm was as light as if his bones were hollow.

Trying to support him without making it seem that I was, I roughly steered him into the house and pushed him down to the floor. "Sit down, _baka_. What in hell happened to you?"

Kenshin coughed listlessly, "Karma, it seems, has extracted its toil." A stronger spasm of coughing seized him, and he doubled over for a few moments. When he straighted back up, there was a film of something dark gleaming on his lower lip. Blood.

I angrily threw back a drawer and rummaged through it until I found what I was looking for: a medicine concoction put together by a well-respected doctor. Many villages swore by its healing properties. Taking up the package, I handed it to Kenshin along with water from a nearby bucket.

Kenshin shook his head faintly. "Nothing can help me now, Master."

"You'll take it or I'll have you outside chopping wood," I rumbled. "Dying or not, you're still my stupid pupil and will obey me."

Kenshin smiled and tipped the contents of the package in the cup of water; he needed to hold the cup with both hands to lift it to his mouth. I watched him do so, wondering if the medicine would have any effect whatsoever. The _chi_ around him was heavy with the tang of death, and I knew with a crushing inevitability that my former pupil, both my bane and my pride, had very little time left on earth. With his death, Kenshin my pupil and the only other master of Hiten Mitsurugi would die too. When I was gone, Hiten Mitsurugi would be too.

The medicine seemed to have at least a little effect on Kenshin because after several minutes, his breathing deepened slightly and a little of his skin's color came back. Smiling wanly at me, he said "Thank you." As he moved his hand, I saw the dark stain seeping from the bandage wrapped around his arm.

Shaking my head and trying to hide my emotion under my accustomed sarcasm, I retorted, "Yes, karma is certainly punishing you for all the frustrations you inflicted upon me. I don't think any master ever had such a stupid and willful pupil."

Kenshin hacked again, a wet, rasping sound that seemed to tear at his lungs. "I was, wasn't I?" he said in a feeble attempt at humor.

"Quite right," I harrumphed.

"Then, Master, as your stupid and willful pupil, I must beg for your patience and teaching once again."

"Again?" I snorted. "You couldn't lift a sword at eye level in the condition you're in. Besides," I shot him an astonished look, realizing for the first time what was missing. "You're not even carrying one." It was true: although Kenshin's _hakama_ showed wear and fading on his left hip, right where his katana would have rested, there was no sword at his side. It was one of the few times in his life I had seen him unarmed.

"Not for myself, Master," Kenshin replied quietly. "But for my son, Kenji."

"Son?" I said in surprise.

"Yes," Kenshin nodded. "I married a good woman. To tell the truth, Karou is too good for the likes of this unworthy one. But," he smiled faintly, "She was persistent. Our son, Kenji..." Kenshin paused and a shadow fell over his face, "I...I have not been a good father to him. I have wandered too long, too far from him. My son...he is like a stranger to me. He is strong with the sword; his mother has taught him since before he could walk. But he needs the teaching of a man. He has begged me for years to teach him, but I...I cannot do that. I will not pass on my killing ways to him. Master," he looked at me, "Will you teach him as one final favor to me?"

I was surprised to find that tears were threatening to invade my eyes. Clearing my throat, I swallowed my emotion and rumbled, "Oh gods, any son of your would be twice over stupid and foolish. Must you continue to test my patience and goodwill?"

Kenshin must have detected my sincerity underneath the sarcasm, for he smiled. "Thank you, Master." He was too weak for a formal bow but managed to dip his head.

It was not too long before Kenshin's companion, a man by the name of Sano, was solicitously bundling him back on the horse. The tall man gave me a polite nod before swinging up behind Kenshin. Clearly our conversation had taxed Kenshin's already weak strength because my former pupil could barely make eye contact with me to say goodbye. I had tried to insist that they both stay for the night, for Kenshin was clearly not strong enough for travel. But he insisted, gently but firmly, on setting forth again. It took me a little time before I realized that my pupil knew his days were rapidly running out and that he had no time to spare. Only then was I able to release him to his spike-haired companion. Sano looked competent and was solicitous towards Kenshin in a way that told me he had some knowledge of medicine, so I felt reasonably secure about placing my dying pupil into his hands.

As they rode off into the trees, my heart gripped me. I knew with all certainty that this was the last time I would see my pupil again. It was I, Hiko Seijuro that would carry on the teachings of Hiten Mitsurugi, not my disciple. I suppose that I am not the first master to outlive his pupil. In my heart of hearts, I knew that in some way, I had failed Kenshin. His dark past, his slowly consuming illness, his heavily burdened were partially my fault. If my pride and arrogance had not been so great, if I could have praised more and condemned less, perhaps, just perhaps, Kenshin's fate and the paths of many people would have been much different. But there was nothing I could do to remedy the past.

Or so I thought until one day I caught wind of a swirl of _chi_ in the air that was both foreign and familiar. At the edge of the clearing, moving towards me smoothly, was a sight that made my heart leap: long red hair swinging in a heavy ponytail, small frame moving with liquid grace, and large eyes gazing calmly at me. It wasn't him, of course. A few weeks ago, I had felt an unexpected pain in my heart as if something had severed itself and broken free from me. I did not need this young stripling to tell me that my former pupil no longer walked this earth. Yet, here in front of me was his copy.

Oh, there were differences. The hair was a darker shade of red and the eyes were blue, not violet. But even more so was the _chi_ that emanated from him. Kenshin had been all passion and grief and pain. His son's _chi_ bore these traces, but there was anger there, a controlled but powerful rage that overshadowed the other emotions. In my limited experience, anger was a common trait of young boys struggling to be men: the welter of emotion and conflict of undergoing puberty too easily roused their ire. But the dark swirl of emotion in this one's _chi_ was not simply the usual emotional upheaval of youth. My new pupil was angry: angry at his father, no doubt, for all the years he had spent away from his son's side. Angry, no doubt also, at his father being taken away from him. And angry, undoubtedly, about being sent to train at my side when it should have been his father who had trained him.

I took in all this in a heartbeat as Kenji came to meet me. Politely, with exacting perfection but also with challenge oozing from each pore, he bowed formally and said, "Master, I have come."

I smiled to myself, marveling that this young one could be so alike and so unalike to his father. I knew that training him would be a constant battle between forgetting that the son, not the father, was standing before me and at the same time wondering how the son in front of me could have issued from the father I knew so well. I also knew that the fates had handed me this one chance to redress some of my own errors, that perhaps in training Kenji I could somehow overcome mistakes I had made in the past, faults that had lead to so much suffering for Kenshin and inadvertently for Japan. My former pupil was no longer mine to shape and command. But I had his image before me and the duty of training to take on once again.

Turning, I marched off, leaving the young one behind me. After a few paces, I barked at him, "Well? What are you waiting for, _baka_? Go fetch some water. I want tea."

"Yes, Master," my new pupil replied. Even his voice held a strange echo of his father. Smiling to myself, I thought, _It begins again_.


End file.
